


What a Picture is Worth

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the silhouette of a person, the rustling of clothes; such simple things that never seemed so bright, so loud before. (Fenris/Anders slash inspired by the artwork of Neonowls.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Picture is Worth

**Author's Note:**

> These are a series of ficlets, completely unrelated to each other, that are directly inspired by and meant to accompany a few pieces of fanart done by Neonowls. By clicking the preview icon, you can view the full-size piece. Did I mention she is awesome? She is. Really. This for her.
> 
> Some of the artwork that inspired the scenes below are NSFW. The corresponding scenes are as well. If you shouldn't be reading it, shoo.

[   
](http://neonowls.tumblr.com/post/7042831469/holy-god-i-am-finally-done-with-this-thing)

The mage never picks up after himself, but this is the first night Fenris notices the coat, discarded on the floor with boots and socks.

It's too large for him, draping over lithe muscle and winding lyrium, but he isn't wearing it for a perfect fit. It's an impulse, an instinct, an unplacable whim that has him sliding his arms through the sleeves of Anders' ridiculous coat, the feathery shoulders tickling at his cheek, his neck.

He realizes he's no longer alone when there's a strangled gasp somewhere from behind him, slowly turning away from the bed to find the mage watching him with a slackened, dumbfounded expression.

One look down at himself reminds Fenris of why that must be, but he schools his expression, holding it neutral, calm, pinning him with a glare.

"Mage."

"You're, uh..."

The elf watches him with an eyebrow slowly raising.

"My coat. You're wearing it."

"How astute."

"Yes. I just-- Well, why?"

As easily as he put it on, Fenris begins to make a show of shrugging it off; it shouldn't be amusing how quickly the mage crosses the room and grips him by the shoulders, the momentum toppling them both back onto the bed, but the sense of satisfaction is gone in the face of touching and movement and _skin_.

The coat never quite makes it off the elf's shoulders.

\---

[   
](http://neonowls.tumblr.com/post/10011030645/happy-fenders-friday-not-quite-finished-at-all)

Anders lies there and watches because he can do _nothing else_. This will shatter with the slightest shift, with a feather's weight of pressure, and he wants to keep _this_ , keep _him_.

There's the silhouette of a person, the rustling of clothes; such simple things that never seemed so _bright_ , so _loud_ before.

One footstep and then another, and he doesn't know when inaction became motion; what he does know is there is warmth and rough cloth between them, a flash of surprised, guarded eyes turning his way.

"You're going?" he asks, raw and sleep-roughed and just the slightest bit challenging.

The quirk of a dark eyebrow -- critical or amused or perhaps both because he can never read Fenris as well as he would like to -- is its own answer for a time, as is the deep chuckle.

"No."

Anders sees then what he doesn't from the bed -- tunic and not armor, half dressed and hardly prepared. No. Fenris certainly isn't going to leave like this.

The press of his lips against a tapered ear is fleeting but no less a promise.

And it is enough.

  
\---

[   
](http://neonowls.tumblr.com/post/7757144886/newest-fenders-this-time-featuring-janders-dun)

Fenris remembers waking in Darktown, a fiery ache in the back of his skull from a lingering injury. He remembers the smell of herbs and waste, that unique combination that could only be _the clinic_. He remembers tumbling from the cot, disoriented, and picking through the piles of his discarded armor, dressing in a haze.

He remembers the crash of the door when bandits rush the place. He remembers heading them off. He remembers the sizzle of magic slicing through the air when the mage, the _abomination_ , joins the fray. He remembers the hush that returns when the assailants are felled or chased off.

What he remembers most, though, is the silence when he turns, staring down the mage radiating raw energy, fissures in his skin, through his coat, and the light of the Fade itself pooling behind his eyes.

They stare.

It's maddening.

What he _doesn't_ remember is returning to the cot, the thing that is the mage _yet not_ following him. He doesn't remember when they press together until there's the swipe of an insistent tongue, tracing markings and patterns, searing sensation along every inch of lyrium as if they're veins and it's the blood that pulses and dances.

Through the haze, he wonders if there will ever be anything to remember beyond this.

\---

[   
](http://neonowls.tumblr.com/post/5829781313/finally-this-took-way-longer-than-it-should-have)

"Fenris."

Anders is breathless, somewhere between exasperation and restraint.

It doesn't matter that his fingers flex and dig at the elf's hips, that they are perched flush and undeniably against his own. Fenris is deliberate in the way he draws Anders in with a tilt of his head and a brush of his mouth, savoring the play of breath and lips, weaving away only to dip back in again and again.

By the time there is movement, the rock of his hips up and the fluid fall of them _down_ , coherent thought belongs to someone else. There are ripples of raw, pure _feeling_ that pool somewhere he can't place, flaring brighter and brighter with each slide of skin, with each press of hips, with each pulse of energy between them.

When Anders is toppled back, when there are weapon-calloused hands braced against his chest, he knows he's lost to it. He can only guide Fenris, stroke him, and match him rhythm for rhythm.

He sees it in flashes: the way Fenris bares his teeth, the way his head cants, the way his damnable intensity is _finally_ focused on something else.

On him. On them.

Piece by piece, the remnants of his control fray. There is nothing left to bind them, snapping and gone and crashing over him. He is distantly aware of warmth and a body pressed to his, a moan and then the sting of teeth gnashing at his neck, but he can't be sure when it all stops.

By the time he surfaces again, Fenris is already dressed and leaving.


End file.
